


Five Times Scully Dreams About William (& One Time She Doesn't Have To)

by blackcoffeeandteardrops



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Second Person, let scully be happy 2k17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcoffeeandteardrops/pseuds/blackcoffeeandteardrops
Summary: The title is self explanatory. Sometimes, Scully dreams of William. Written because, hey, I enjoy angst I guess. But there's a little bit of happiness thrown in there, I promise.





	Five Times Scully Dreams About William (& One Time She Doesn't Have To)

You dream about him for the first time just three days after you give him up. The only reason it didn’t happen any sooner is you didn’t sleep at all the first night, and the second night was spent under the stupor of a double dose of sleeping pills downed with a few shots of whiskey. You’re aware it’s a dream, standing in the doorway and listening as he laughs in his crib, and yet there’s something oddly comforting about it.

The comfort ends as soon as you see a kitchen knife floating precariously in the air over him. 

“William,” you say, your voice even in hopes of not startling him. He’s amused, watching the knife spin this way and that in the air, end over end, and you reach your arm out slower than you’d ever imagine possible. Slower still, because you’re not entirely certain of how much control he has over this whole making objects move thing, but considering the knife originated in the kitchen, you’re pretty sure it’s strong. 

“Agent Scully…” a voice calls and you turn, momentarily distracted by the idea that someone could have entered your apartment unannounced. The sound of William laughing brings your attention back to the crib and your heart skips a beat as the knife is poised differently now, angled downward. You lunge for it just as it falls, making a noise as it lands in something solid, and you’ve never heard your heart beat so loudly. You rifle through the blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals that line his crib and come up empty. He’s gone, you realize, holding up the knife and staring at your reflection in the moonlight. He’s gone, and nothing can bring him back.

The second dream you have--rather, the second one you allow yourself to remember--happens when you and Mulder are on the run. You’re in Indiana, or Illinois maybe because you’re sure you crossed a state line at some point. Either way, you’re holed up in a seedy hotel with blankets you probably shouldn’t trust, but after the first hot shower you had to yourself in a few days, you pass out and fall into a peaceful sleep.

That is, until your brain conjures up the image of you standing in the living room of a home you don’t recognize. You’d know his laugh anywhere and you turn, desperate to find him. “William,” you cry, relieved that he’s happy but with arms aching to hold him. “I’m here, sweetheart,” you say, and in the dream you’re smiling. Your heart is full, but as you open the door to the room you somehow know is his, you’re greeted by the sight of a dark haired woman standing with her back to you. 

“William?” you say, your voice coming out smaller and quieter now than it was before. 

The woman turns towards you, cradling William in her arms. He reaches up for her, hands tangling with the ends of her hair and bubbles forming on his lips. The woman locks eyes with you and she smiles, completely sincere, as if that would make you feel any better. “He’s such a good boy,” she says, telling you something that you already know. 

Your legs itch, and every fiber of your being tells you to run. You know what this place is, his home now, even if it’s not exactly what it looks like. Somewhere, William is safe and he’s dreaming. In your dream, just as you’re about to bolt, he turns his head and gazes at you, and there’s something kin to a flickering of recognition in his eyes. “Mama.”

After this dream, you jolt awake, sitting upright and burying your face in your palms. Mulder wakes up, wordlessly sitting beside you as he pulls you against his chest. He doesn’t ask, but you get the feeling he doesn’t have to. The two of you haven’t talked about it, and you’re not even sure of how to bring it up, but a few nights ago, you heard him utter William’s name in his sleep.

The dreams stay away for a while, quick flashes here and there. Some days, when you and Mulder venture into town, you’ll see a woman holding a baby, and your arms will ache. You’ll catch sight of a dark haired toddler, and just for a second, you let yourself believe it’s him. You’ve conjured up a dozen lives for him in your head, even though you don’t know simple things like what his favorite color is or what food he likes to eat. And for the longest time, you don’t bring yourself to say let alone think his name.

Maybe it’s the pressure of the case with Christian--actually, you know it is, and not just because Mulder called you out on it--but the dreams of William come on strong again. You see him, lying still in a hospital bed, pillows carefully propped below his head, and you know without asking that it’s your son. This boy, sleeping soundly despite the wires and needles sticking into him, is the child you and Mulder created despite what science told you. 

In dreams, everything should be fine. Dreams are a respite from the real world, only now, you fight the urge to break down the door and demand to speak to every person responsible for putting your little boy in this hospital bed, but just as the thought crosses your mind, you feel his hand pulling on yours. “William?” you say, blinking back tears. Even in dreams of him, you can’t stop yourself from crying.

A smile crosses his face, so similar to his father’s. He moves the hair out of his eyes and you see a scrape above his right eye you don’t remember being there before. What kind of mother are you, when you can’t even tell what’s wrong with your son? “It’s just a scratch,” he says, so young but still able to read the worry on your face. “I’ll be okay.”

Awake, his words offer little solace when you can’t confirm their accuracy for yourself, so you do the only thing you can do. You kiss Mulder’s cheek, marveling at how soundly he sleeps as you splash cold water on your face and head to the hospital, intent on trying to help the boy you can save.

Time passes. You bury yourself in your work while Mulder buries himself in his research. If the news he gleaned several years ago is correct, the end of the world isn’t that far off. He leaves a note for you one day, saying he’s going to interview someone for the book he’s always working on, and you’re happy, at least a little. You try to be be upset that he didn’t take the time to actually tell you in person, or stick around long enough to kiss you goodbye. The bed is empty without him, so you grab a blanket and end up falling asleep on the couch, the tv casting a pale blue glow across the room as a nature documentary plays.

“Do you want bow tie or elbow noodles to go with dinner tonight, Will? Elbow--” you say, laughing, and at least in dreams you mean it. You poke your elbow out, intent on playfully jabbing his side, but it only meets air. You turn, spinning around, because you’re certain William was there just a second ago. You’d been giggling--actually giggling, who would have thought--at his terrible pronunciations of names of different kinds of pasta. He’d been there, you’re sure of it, and so you drop a box of elbow noodles into the cart and take off around the corner, fear creeping up your throat. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“William?” you cry out, trying to mask the worry in your voice. An elderly woman glares at you, eyes casting judgement over her glasses as she clutches a head of cabbage in her hands. What kind of mother loses track of their child? When you come across him a few aisles over, near the garden section, you press your palm to your chest in relief. “There you are, Will. You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his bottom lip quivering. “I just heard the music--” he says, pointing at the collection of wind chimes hanging on hooks. “I came over and someone was rattling them, causing noise, but they’re prettier this way, aren’t they?” 

You wrap an arm around his side, tucking him in close. There are butterflies and owls, and even birds, all woven in pieces of intricate metal and sometimes glass. A few are moving of their own accord, despite no one touching them and there being no sign of wind. An image flashes, there and gone in an instant, of an infant William causing his mobile to turn, and you wonder briefly if he’s the reason the chimes are moving. There are people milling about, and a different elderly woman is edging closer, clearly trying to see if there is any drama to be concerned about. “I tell you what,” you said, removing your arm from around his shoulders. “Why don’t you pick one, and when we get home, we can hang it up?”

He glances up at you, blue eyes wide and grinning with one of his front teeth missing. “Really?” he says, and when you nod, he points at one on the rack. “I like the one with the frogs. Ribbit, ribbit,” he says, puffing his cheeks out and imitating one for a second. The two of you are so happy that had he asked for an actual frog, for a moment, you just might concede. 

When you wake up, your face pressed against the arm of the couch, you can feel the smile on your cheeks. You pull the blanket that smells like Mulder close around you, glue your eyes back to whatever documentary is airing, and just for a moment allow yourself to pretend.

The end of the world doesn’t happen. You and Mulder drift apart, and you try like hell, but eventually you pick up the pieces and move out. He waits a few weeks before calling you the first time, all but begging you to come back, and for whatever reason you deny his request. While happy isn’t a word you’d use to describe yourself without him, there’s at least a tiny part of you that doesn’t mind being alone. Still, a few phone calls with Skinner and suddenly you’re back in each other’s orbit, at least for work purposes. It feels good, reviewing notes in the office and arguing over theories with Mulder again. The two of you are more alive than you’ve ever been, and more than once you find yourself fiddling with the ring he gave you on your island vacation before everything changed, and you hope that maybe what’s broken can be fixed.

Of course, there had to be a case with children. You had to stare at kids who were forced to essentially be lab rats, and you had to fight back thoughts of your own child. You were never supposed to get pregnant, but you did, and somewhere in the world, there’s a child living and breathing as proof of that fact. You just pray his life is nothing like those of the children you saw in the lab. 

Your apartment isn’t exactly home, but for now it’s a comfortable place you can go to sort out your thoughts of the case, and of the man solving it with you. You prop your feet up on the coffee table that came with the place, telling yourself you’re just going to close your eyes for a few moments, but as soon as you do, images flit through your mind on a reel. 

William as a toddler, unable to focus on the story you want to read to him. Next, a little older and holding your hand on the first day of school, and a little older still, hurting from a broken arm. A boy of maybe fourteen or fifteen, frantically calling you into his room. “Mom, what’s happening to me?” he cries, but when he turns to face you his eyes are all wrong, and you know that something’s happening that you don’t know how to explain. 

When you wake up this time, you frantically run to your desk, pulling out the one photograph you allow yourself to keep relatively in view. It had been in a frame and collecting dust on the shelf at home, but when you moved out, the frame fell and broke on the floor. You run your thumb over his cherub-like face in the photo, knowing that unlike the kids in your case he wasn’t an experiment, but tonight the comfort in the fact is lacking. You still have questions, and for now you don’t know if you’ll ever have the answers.

It’s funny, but considering everything you’ve faced, had someone told you that an alien virus would be responsible for you seeing William again, you just might believe them. The cop that escorted you into the room is polite enough to step out, because even though he doesn’t entirely understand the circumstances, the way you tore into the station demanding to see him made it seem important. You didn’t ask Monica how she was able to find him so quickly, and you’re thinking maybe you should’ve, but for now it doesn’t matter. If you stretched your hands out across the table, you could touch him for the first time in years, and that thought alone is enough to make you want to cry. “I don’t know what they told you. About me, or why I’m here.”

William sighs, sitting back in his chair and stuffing a hand into one of his pockets. There’s dirt smeared on his left cheek, and you fight the urge to lick your thumb and wipe it away. He’s not a little kid anymore; a teenager sits in his place, and as his eyes meet yours, they’re not full of questions like you might have expected. “Your name is Dana Scully. You work for the FBI. You’re here because of the virus that is going around and killing everybody,” he says with a shrug. He hesitates for a beat. “You’re also my birth mother, but the detectives didn’t tell me that part.”

Your mouth hangs open, and you hurry to close it. “How did you--” you say, words failing you at this point. Of all the countless conversations you’ve imagined over the years, you never really thought about how this part of the conversation would go. “William, if you have questions of me, I’ll tell you whatever it is you need to know.”

“You’re here because you need me,” he says, as if it could ever be that simple. “How can I help?”

He states it so factually, so calmly, and you’d laugh if the moment wasn’t so serious. It’s almost as if you’re sitting across the table from yourself. Still, there’s something kin to coldness in his tone. “I’m here because I believe you can help me, yes. But you have to believe me when I say it’s about more than that. I’ll explain a few things, and if you choose to stay here, I won’t be mad. It’s your choice.”

“You want me to go with you? Where?” he asks, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Do I get to help solve a case? I read a little bit on the internet while I was waiting,” he says, fishing a smart phone from his pocket. “Do you really think this is about aliens?”

You might be imagining the teasing tone in his voice, daring you to disagree, but the way he raises his eyebrow is undeniable. “William, there’s something I need to tell you,” you said, taking a deep breath before diving in. You share a few details about the virus, sparing him the scientific jargon although you get the odd impression he might understand, and you explain how back in D.C. it’s worked quicker than elsewhere. When you get to the part about Mulder, he leans forward in his chair, his face melting into a look of concern. 

“Do you really think I can help him? Just because you share DNA with someone, doesn’t mean it’s a magical cure,” he says, and you can’t decide if it’s a jab or not.

“I do,” you say, nodding in his direction. “We don’t have much time, but I want to make this clear: you have a choice. If you don’t want to--”

“I do,” he says, pushing his chair back. “When do we leave?”

There are conversations to be had, packing to be done, but you know there’s already an SUV outside waiting. “Thank you, William. I appreciate this more than you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he replies, and something about the way he says it makes you wonder just for a second, but for now you don’t question it. As he jerks his thumb in the direction of the door, you hope there will be time enough later for that. “Should we head out?”

You nod, but don’t move from your spot. When the two of you leave the room, so many things will be set in motion. There will be the plane ride, and then the hospital, and seeing William and Mulder in the room together for the first time in years. You’re not even aware of the fact William is hugging you until his arms are wrapped around you. This time it’s not a dream.

The hug is over as soon as it began. His ears turn a little pink and he shrugs. “You looked like you could use that,” he says, answering the question you were too afraid to ask. “Should we go?”

“Yes,” reply. You’re too afraid to say much else. There will be time later for answers, for stories he’ll likely want to hear, but for now the two of you have a plane to catch. You clasp his shoulder, feeling a little greedy, and motion towards the door. “Let’s go.”


End file.
